


If you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people

by viveriveniversumvivusvici55



Series: Dormouse [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Conversations, Cutscene, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Jaws of Hakkon DLC, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Gen, Jaws of Hakkon DLC Spoilers, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), The present talking to the past, hinted Blackwall/Female Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viveriveniversumvivusvici55/pseuds/viveriveniversumvivusvici55
Summary: It is rather daunting, talking to your predecessor, but it is a conversation that needs to be had.
Series: Dormouse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545286
Kudos: 19





	If you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people

**Author's Note:**

> I have been planning this fic for a year. Now that I've finally beaten Jaws of Hakkon, I have to write it.
> 
> Spoilers for the end of the Jaws of Hakkon DLC.

Clarice can safely say that she has never been this cold before.

The temple and the cave that lead to Hakkon Winter’s Breath is as cold as the void. Something about the dragon god has to have made this so unbearable that it’s agony. Winter’s Breath indeed. The only saving grace inside is the fires around them, and every time they have to dart away from one fire to another, Clarice can feel the cold wind snapping at her face with Hakkon's fury. Blackwall has icicles forming in his beard and moustache, every breath ragged and in pain. At the first fire, they wrap scarves around their faces, only letting their eyes be visible, and tuck them in tight to make sure that not an inch of unnecessary skin is visible. Clarice, for her thick coat, still has thick gloves, a thick toque to cover all the shaved parts of her head, and enough scarfs around her to make sure look like a Nevarran mummy. The Avvar outfitted them as best as possible, but even so Dorian is too cold to even swear as they dart around, and Varric shivers with every step. They don't even have the capacity to complain about the cold. 

And then…there is Clarice. Every bit of cold like this reminds her of the struggle from Haven, and despite the bundle of furs wrapped around her, it's getting to her too. Blackwall's hand rests on her shoulder, anchoring her to the moment as she tries to remind herself that she is in a different place, but that she still has a job to do. Even so, she almost clings to the fires when they have to move, fingers reaching towards the hot metal. Blackwall looks like would hug her if not for the cold metal of his armour, but the hand is enough. It's appreciated. 

When they get to the bottom of the ruin, Gurd Harofsen makes it worse. His Hakkon-imbued attacks dousing the fire makes it even worse. The cold lances into her, nearly freezing the blood in her veins. She fights with a vengeance, if only to stop the cold from killing them, and when he is weak enough, she takes off his head with a boulder from the Fade. It's a satisfying crunch, the blood freezing on the ground. It feels _good._

With the death, the cold fades a little more until it’s just cold – not unbearably so – and they unwind some of their covers. Clarice still keeps her toque on, tucked over her ears, and her scarf is loose around her neck. Still, there is no time to complain. There is the dragon, still frozen in motion, and there are the steps that form to reach the man kneeling before it. They have read enough notes to know exactly who that is. Somehow, by some powerful magic...that's Ameridan.

Clarice steps up cautiously, reaching the edge of the steps, trying not to let her excitement overwhelm her. This is living history, a man long thought dead, a man who she has tried to live up to. Her hands clasp behind her back, standing at attention, but she cannot help the curiosity that feels her. 

She stops at the edge of the stone and across the gap, staring at her…there is an elven man, and his eyes meet hers.

“Inquisitor,” she greets him, bowing her head in greeting.

“Inquisitor,” he replies, his voice just as level. He is old, but his eyes rake over her with obvious wisdom. She wonders what he sees in her - a human mage, serving the Chantry and the Empire? She doesn't know what she sees - an old man who fought hard to save the world. But she sees the look in his eyes and for a brief moment...it feels like looking in the mirror.

She thinks he sees that too.

“How fares Drakon? Has he brought the Chant to the whole world yet?”

Clarice’s eyes widen. _How do I break this to him?_ “You’ve been gone a long time, Inquisitor Ameridan. You disappeared in 1:20 Divine, around the signing of the Nevarran Accord.”

Ameridan shakes his head in disbelief. “You say it as though it was…” his head falls. “How long?”

“You were the last Inquisitor. There hasn’t been an Inquisitor since you disappeared 800 years ago.” Her voice is matter of fact, but there is sympathy at its edges.

There is a frown on the old elf's face. “Drakon was my oldest friend. He would have sent someone to find me!”

Dorian interjects from behind her. “I’m afraid Drakon was a little busy with the darkspawn pouring down from the Anderfels.” _The Blight._

“I see,” Ameridan sighs. “Telana escaped the battle. Did she…do the records say what became of her?”

The group looks at each other, not sure what to say, but Clarice has always chosen truth, even if it hurts. “She returned to the island. From what we can tell, she died trying to reach you through dreams.”

Ameridan’s pain is audible. “I asked her _not_ _to_. She was a good hunter and the love of my life, but she never-“ he sighs. Clarice is quiet, waiting for him to process it and to move forward. It is the only thing to do with pain. Finally, he continues, “I never wanted this job. Hunting demons was so much simpler than politics.”

"That I understand," she smiles a little bit. "Still plenty of those around."

"At least some things stay the same," there is amusement at the edges of his words.

Finally, she asks. "But some things stay forgotten - like that the leader of the Seekers was a mage?"

“Has history forgotten so much? I was not a Seeker myself, as most Inquisitors were. I used my magical gifts in the hunting of demons and maleficarum. Do the Seekers no longer welcome the aid of mages?”

Blackwall interjects. “No. That was forgotten. Among many other things.”

Clarice says softly, “We learned that the Seekers developed…” she can’t fully say it. No matter how much she processes what happened to her, it hurts. Blackwall steps closer, as if trying to protect her from the memory.

“The Rite of Tranquility,” Dorian fills in.

“You mean sundering one from the Fade? The Seekers do it briefly when granting an initiate their abilities.”

Dorian laughs bitterly. “It’s become a way to control mages deemed dangerous. They are left Tranquil.”

Clarice adds, voice sharp, “Permanently.”

Ameridan sighs. “Killing a man is ugly work. You learn not to look to it as your first recourse.” Blackwall makes an affirmative sound behind her, understanding it. “Sundering them from the Fade is _easy._ Bloodless. I told them spreading such a solution would lead to abuse. They swore that would never happen. They _promised_.”

This can't go on. The hurt is bubbling up inside of her and she has to let it out. With a sharp tug, Clarice pulls off her hat to show him the brand. She says nothing, and Ameridan’s eyes widen in horror. “A lot of promises have been broken,” she says firmly, voice not wobbling. She doesn't tell him how it was fixed, what happened to her, but she doesn't need to. 

“I am so sorry.” The weight in those words is palpable, an ache for something he couldn’t fix, could never have fixed.

She sighs, pulls the hat back on. “You are not to blame, Inquisitor. You could not have known.”

His fingers tighten a little around his staff. “The Inquisition was a vital force, but feared. We fought so many dangers with so many terrible weapons. I did everything I could to transform them into a force for peace. I had no wish to chase a dragon to the far reaches of nowhere. I had my people to deal with…and the Nevarran accord. But Drakon told me I was needed…as I suspect you were.”

“It was the only thing that kept me alive after my magic was returned to me,” Clarice laughs softly. “Duty kept me together, even if it wasn’t my choice.”

Ameridan’s smile was soft. “Take moments of happiness where you can find them. The world will take the rest.”

Clarice turns back to look at Blackwall, affection in her eyes, and he stares back with everything he has. He keeps the words back as not to overwhelm her or look like a sentimental fool, she knows that, but she can read them anyways in his eyes, the lines of his face, in how she knows him. _I love you. I will give you all the happiness I can._ She smiles at him and turns back to Ameridan.

Ameridan speaks softly. “The dragon carries the spirit of an Avvar god. I lack the strength to kill it. My own magic was able to bind us all, locked in time. But when the cultists drew that spirit into another vessel, it disrupted my bindings.”

Dorian says softly, “...it’s breaking free.”

Everyone feels their hearts drop into their stomachs. Clarice asks softly, “And your magic doesn’t stop the passage of time, does it.” It’s not a question.

“No. It does not. It can delay it, but not ignore it. I will soon join Telana at Andraste’s side.”

Clarice bows to him. “Then I’d be honoured to finish what you’ve started, Ameridan.”

“Thank you. Take this. It holds the last few memories of a hunter who was neither as wise nor as strong as he thought,” the edges of him crumple, the magic pulling him away as he offers up...magic, memories? Something that flies from him into the sky, finding places to rest until Clarice comes to get them. His expression crumbles into fragments, but she catches the hint of a smile. “Fight well, Inquisitor.”

“Dareth shiral. Walk in Andraste’s light,” she says, pressing her fist over her heart.

They say it at the same time, one last moment of synchronicity, Inquisitor to Inquisitor.

**“I am honoured to have met you.”**


End file.
